


All the Best People are Crazy

by athena_crikey



Series: Courting Death [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: AU, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Referenced Child Abuse, Second Sight - Freeform, assassins amok, internalized inadequacy, match made in hell, psychic Hisoka, psychologically damaged, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: It’s three o’clock on a dusty Friday afternoon, and Illumi has just been propositioned in broad daylight by a man clearly lacking in sanity.“Very well,” he says.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Series: Courting Death [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895986
Comments: 3
Kudos: 168





	All the Best People are Crazy

Illumi wakes up to a text from an unknown number. He opens the new thread to the sight of an exceptionally gory scene, centred on the corpse of a man he once met in an ice cream parlour overlooking a fishing wharf. 

He texts back: _I hope this isn’t a wrong number._ When he’s done he gets out of his Air B&B bed, his flannel pyjama trousers flapping loose against his slim legs, and pads through to the kitchen to look in the fridge. Half a head of cabbage, a bag of baby carrots, and a carton of eggs. The same items that have been in it every morning he’s checked for the past three days. At home, food simply appears. Illumi realises that this isn’t the case in rented accommodation halfway around the world, but it would be much more convenient if it were. 

He cracks two eggs into a bowl and drinks them raw; the protein is sufficient. When he’s done this he checks his phone again. There’s another message: _Wouldn’t that be amusing?_ And then, letters appearing out of the ether as if by magic: _Want to play?_

Illumi types back: _I haven’t played a game since I was six. It was “hide and defenestrate.”_ He puts the phone down on the countertop – black quartz seamed with gold – and pulls out the coffee and slots it into the espresso machine. Illumi likes coffee. He doesn’t love it – to love something is to have it stolen from you, he learned quickly enough as a child – but he does enjoy a good cup. He books his apartments based on their location and flooring (it’s murder trying to remove traces from carpet), but also their coffee makers. He props a narrow hip against the countertop and considers the day outside the air-conditioned apartment. Hot. Dry. Thirsty. After the rainstorm two days ago everything dried out, and now the dirt in the gutter three storeys below the apartment’s window is cracked and parched. 

The double shot finishes gurgling; he pours it into a small cup and sips. 

Pleasant. 

On the countertop, his phone buzzes. _Tragic. You need more fun in your life. I can help with that. <3_

Illumi looks down at the text. _Why did you send me a fart?_

_It’s a heart, Illumi. But I love that you consider me at the level of bathroom humour._ There’s a pause, and then: _I’m going to an arcade this afternoon. Care to join?_

Shopping isn’t something Illumi enjoys. He’s always been fawned over by salespeople for his “beautiful hair” and “fabulous figure,” which only makes it worse. Illumi isn’t beautiful or fabulous, and praise is nothing but a mind game. 

And yet, he’s intrigued. _Alright. Where and when?_

Hisoka gives the address and suggests 2pm. Illumi replies with: _Fine._

  
***

Illumi dresses as he always does: in clean, comfortable clothes that enable quick movement. For summer he goes sleeveless; so much easier to wash blood off skin than fabric. Today he’s wearing a loose black top with a strip of netting covering the nylon front and the same pair of straight-legged plaid pants he wore the night he met Hisoka for the first time. His shoes are cheap, comfortable slip-ons, easily replaceable. His weapons are numerous.

The arcade, it turns out, is not a shopping arcade at all but a video game arcade. It’s set in amongst a street of comic-book shops and dingy-looking ethnic restaurants. The walls are painted livid purple with a red neon sign above: Cats N Sass Arcade. The windows are blacked out. 

Hisoka is waiting for him outside, leaning against the corner of the entryway. His clothes today are more normal than his whimsical fair outfit; a sky-blue crop-top tee with a deep v-neck and washed out jean shorts. Illumi can see the slow beat of Hisoka’s heart at the soft base of his throat. He watches the flutter of life there, delicate as spider silk and just as easily rent. 

“Most people prefer to ogle my ass,” Hisoka says with an easy smile, and pushes off the wall. He has sunglasses perched in his thick raft of hair, rounded and tinted blue to match his outfit today. He looks ready for the beach, except that by the pallor of his skin Illumi can’t imagine he spends much time outdoors. 

“I thought you were being facetious in your offer to play,” replies Illumi, glancing from the fortune-teller to the doors to the arcade. 

“I told you: you need to have more fun, do what you want to. I excel at doing exactly as I please.”

Looking at him, Illumi thinks this is almost certainly true. Certainly his choice of clothing, occupation, hobbies and companion suggest so. “I would make a terrible hedonist,” he says.

Hisoka’s eyes glitter. “You won’t know until you try.”

  
***

The inside of the arcade is dark and full of electronic noise and flashing lights. Hisoka moves effortlessly through the gloom, past kids and teens absorbed by buttons and joysticks and glowing screens. At the desk (decorated with pictures of overweight cats) he puts a twenty down and collects a case of tokens. Clearly he’s been here before, or to arcades like it.

“What’s your pleasure?” he asks, turning to look around the room. Right now being the middle of the day it’s not busy, most children in school except those playing hookie to be here. 

“You choose,” says Illumi, who doesn’t feel like admitting he’s only played a video game once in his life. He beat Milluki at some game with jumping plumbers and evil turtles and wasn’t invited back. 

Hisoka chooses a shooting game provided with two fake plastic guns attached to the machine by thick black cords. “The object is to kill the bad guys and save the good guys,” Hisoka explains as he slots his tokens in. The screen blares with sound and light, and then the camera is panning through a grungy alleyway; it’s a split-screen, one half for him and one for Hisoka. A man in black clothes with a gun appears. Illumi shoots him. A woman pushing a baby stroller shows up, her outfit and stroller entirely wrong for the neighbourhood and clearly suspicious; he shoots her too. 

In all, he shoots every person he sees. The gun is clearly just for show; it’s the reticle on the screen that matters. Illumi kills 22 people and considers it a job well done. The screen goes black on the 22nd and shows _YOU LOSE._ He blinks. 

“My aim was perfect.”

Hisoka holsters his weapon and leans over, his arm casually on Illumi’s shoulder. He’s hot even in the air-conditioned arcade, his skin radiating heat like aluminum in the summer sun. It’s distracting. The scores for the game come up and Hisoka smiles. “Mm, you killed eight civilians,” he says. 

“They were suspicious. Why were they walking without concern in the centre of an inner-city slum in suits and summer dresses? Why were they _smiling?_ ”

“I’m afraid the logic in video games is rarely subtle,” replies Hisoka. 

Illumi looks at him flatly. “They deserved their fates.”

Hisoka jingles his tokens like a child with a rattle. “Let’s try another.”

They move on to a motorcycle racing game, complete with fake bikes which they mount and use to control the race on the screen. The camera is intended to represent the view of the racer, and the bike can be controlled by leaning into curves and revving the throttle on the handle. Illumi wonders a little at the inventiveness of the people who design these games, and the fact that anyone could have so much free time. 

Hisoka loses the bike game due to the fact that he takes every possible opportunity to lean over and crash into Illumi, both on screen and in person, his elbow brushing Illumi’s side and his bicep Illumi’s arm. He laughs easily, unconcerned with his loss and the fiery mess of his bike on the screen. 

Illumi almost wants to play again, not so much for the experience of racing the bike but for the warmth that ripples in him when Hisoka touches him. His skin seems to retain the fortune-teller’s heat; it pools in his body like mercury, thick yet slippery, eating into his muscle and bone. It’s clear that to Hisoka such touches are easily given, without thought or regret. But Illumi has rarely been gifted with attention, and his mind hordes each contact carefully, wonderingly, as though they were precious riches. 

But then Hisoka is dismounting, and he’s certainly not going to ask to replay a child’s game. And after all, Illumi doesn’t have wants or wishes. Remember Illumi, desire is a vice, and if you indulge it it will crush you sooner or later. _We see to it that you want for nothing; you see to it that you_ want _nothing._

He dismounts and follows. 

Hisoka leads him over to a machine with a raised platform featuring large arrows in front of it. “It’s a dancing game,” explains Hisoka as he slots his tokens in. “You step on the arrows in time with the screen.” He cycles through several screens very quickly using the pads on the platform to navigate. 

Illumi nods. Simple coordination training. He steps up beside Hisoka, who is stretching his arms. The music starts, loud and electronic, and green and pink arrows appear on the screen. “Step on the arrow when the symbol reaches the cut-out at the top of the screen,” instructs Hisoka as the arrows rise. 

The first arrows arrive at the top of the screen, and both Illumi and Hisoka move. 

It’s not a technically challenging game. The rhythms are predicted by the music’s beats and there are only a limited number of possible step combinations. And yet he and Hisoka go about it in completely different ways. 

Illumi is parsimonious of his movements, flowing into his steps and otherwise holding himself still. He shifts slightly with each step, but does not engage his arms or core more than strictly necessary. 

Hisoka _dances._ He twists and turns sensuously, his hips swaying seductively with each step. He keeps his arms moving, reaching out and up, making each movement a spectacle, something to watch. His hands run down his body, pressing his clothes tight against himself, riding over his narrow waist and flaring hips. His head tilts back, eyes fluttering with naked pleasure. 

Illumi, watching Hisoka rather than the screen, misses two steps. He berates himself and turns his attention back to the game, but not before he sees Hisoka grin. 

The man is purposely distracting him, is knowingly flirting with death. Every touch, every smile, every twist of his hips is intended solely to pull Illumi closer to him. Who but a madman would want that? 

But then, Hisoka Morow is mad; Illumi’s known it since the moment he saw him. Mad enough to believe himself to be psychic, mad enough to flirt with his assassin. Mad enough to purposefully bring death back into his life. 

He could have disappeared after Illumi spared him. Could have run and hid and never seen Illumi again. Instead, he invited him out to a video game arcade. It doesn’t make sense. 

No one has ever wanted anything from Illumi but mercy. 

The game finishes, Hisoka eking out a victory. He’s breathing hard and sweating, his smile predatory and his eyes flashing like gold foil under halogen lights. 

“Wasn’t that _fun_ ,” he purrs, looking Illumi up and down, undressing him with his eyes. 

“I don’t understand you,” says Illumi. 

“Oh?”

“What is it you want? Why are you here? Why invite me out? You know what I am.”

“ _What_ you are?” Hisoka’s lips curl upwards. “You’re not a thing, love. No matter what your handlers told you. As for what I want… I thought I was fairly obvious.” He leans forward, one thumbnail tracing down the side of Illumi’s neck, his mouth at Illumi’s ear. “I want _you_.”

He smells of scotch and soap and quite a lot of heavy-duty hair spray. 

Illumi stands very still, so still he can feel Hisoka’s breath on his ear. “You’re crazy,” he says flatly.

Hisoka pulls back, his smile sickly sweet; he leans against the safety bar at the back of the platform and crosses his legs at the ankles. The look he gives Illumi is smouldering. “Don’t you know? All the best people are crazy.” 

Illumi doesn’t have an answer to that. He was expecting denial, not confirmation. 

“Do you want to play again?” suggests Hisoka, clearly relishing the thought.

“I would prefer a coffee,” replies Illumi, worried that the situation seems to be getting away from him. This is Hisoka’s comfort zone. He needs to flip the tables. 

Hisoka shrugs and straightens. “We can do that.”

  
***

Outside it’s hot and dry, the sun scorching overhead. Hisoka flips down his sunglasses; the blue tints his golden eyes a bright acid green. He leads the way and Illumi’s eyes fall to his strong, muscular thighs and the roundness of his ass shown off by the cut-off shorts. Hisoka has the body of an athlete, not a fraudulent clairvoyant. But then, Illumi supposes he’s never met another one.

The streets are quiet, perhaps due to the heat but more likely because most residents are either at work or school. They find a coffee shop on the corner of the next block which is mostly empty, the staff resorting to cleaning their work stations to appear busy. Hisoka orders an iced mocha; Illumi a regular Americano. Heat doesn’t bother him. Hisoka takes the drinks over to a couple of cozy leather chairs in the corner while Illumi goes to the bathroom. 

When he returns Hisoka is thumbing through his phone. “Today’s horoscopes,” he says. “Mine is wrong, as usual.”

Illumi doesn’t deign to ask what it says. Hisoka’s eyes flicker up over top of the sleek red phone case. “What’s your sign?”

Illumi blinks. “Do I have one?”

“You’re an astrologer’s nightmare: shockingly ignorant _and_ hard to read. When’s your birthday?”

He stares back. “Do you really imagine I would tell you?”

Hisoka gives him an unimpressed look. He puts down his phone, nudges his coffee to the side, and puts his hands out palm-up on the table. They’re long and pale, his fingers strong but supple in appearance, the tips of his acrylic nails peeking out at the tips. “Give me your hand.”

Illumi considers. With both hands outstretched Hisoka can’t use a weapon, and although he could easily kick the table over and spill Illumi’s scalding Americano on him, it wouldn’t stop Illumi from breaking his neck with his free hand. He reaches out and places his hand lightly on Hisoka’s. The fortune-teller immediately clasps it between his two palms, raising them and balancing his elbows on the table. He closes his eyes momentarily, then opens them. “April 25. Taurus: strong and stubborn,” he says, releasing Illumi’s hand. 

Illumi’s eyes narrow. “How do you know that?” No one outside the family and the butlers know his birthday. The family doesn’t gossip, and the butlers hold their tongues on fear of death. 

“Oh, easily; I memorized the zodiac signs when I was five, and –”

“Not that,” interrupts Illumi, hands stiff with blood lust. “My birthday. How do you know?”

Hisoka turns an amused eye on him. “I could find out anything I cared to, although I prefer to use my cards. But skin-to-skin contact is very effective.” He wiggles his long fingers. 

“I am not satisfied.”

“And how often has that happened to such a fine young killer?” muses Hisoka. Illumi stares at him flatly until he relents, smiling. “Very well. Ask me anything.” He holds out his hands again. 

Illumi considers. Then he points at the iron burn on his hand. It’s blunt-edged and faded, but still visible on his smooth skin. “How did I get this?” He places his hand in Hisoka’s, and the fortune-teller holds it again. 

His eyes fall closed and his eyebrows twitch once; then he opens them, still holding Illumi’s hand. His grip is warm and dry. “Your mother burned you with an iron. You were four – no, five. It hurt deeply, but you didn’t cry.” He meets Illumi’s eyes; his own are shuttered, glassy. “‘I can’t abide crybabies,’” he intones.

_I can’t abide crybabies._ He remembers the words, remembers Mother’s red glowing eye staring down at him and the rustle of her skirts. It had been a mantra with her, words to live by. Words she trotted out every time he sniffled, every time his mouth became pinched. He hadn’t known what _abide_ meant. All he knew was that crying would make things much, much worse. So he didn’t. 

Illumi pulls his hand back slowly; Hisoka lets it slip out of his grip, his thumb ghosting along Illumi’s. “Not a nice childhood,” he says, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his interwoven fingers. He blinks and his eyes are bright once more, like a newly-polished wedding ring. He leans down and takes a sip of his iced mocha through the straw. 

Illumi just stares at him. Stares at this man who knows things no one else should know, things he _can’t_ know. 

“You don’t want to believe,” says Hisoka, stirring his drink, the ice grinding noisily. “True faith is either very easy or very hard. It depends how willing you are to throw away everything you hold dear.”

“There is nothing that I hold dear.” 

Hisoka’s grin is slick as lye and just as corrosive. Illumi can feel it searing into his brain, unforgettable. “Then you should find it easy.”

“I’m not looking for a cult to join.”

Surprise paints itself across Hisoka’s face, followed by amusement. He laughs, leaning back in his chair until the back creaks dangerously. “I cannot imagine anything more agonizingly dull than being a prophet, worshipped by mindless acolytes who agree with my every word. My desires are much more modest. To start, I would like for you to believe me,” he says around the bright pink straw. Illumi focuses on the way it slides into his mouth, his lips two shades too pink to be natural. He has a sudden image of Hisoka painting on his make-up in the mirror before coming out to meet him, of the fortune-teller blowing kisses at himself. 

_All the best people are crazy_ , he thinks. 

“Well I don’t,” he says, picking up his Americano and taking a long, silent drink. He puts it down on the table and continues: “Let’s say I’m agnostic.”

“Do you believe in God, Illumi?” asks Hisoka, suddenly.

“No.”

He opens the top of his plastic cup and shakes some ice down into his mouth, which he crunches. “Life after death?” he asks, mid-crunch. 

Illumi stares back flatly. “No.”

“So you can make your mind up on that, but not on me?”

“I’ve only known you since Tuesday.”

Hisoka replaces his cup on the table, ice settling in the bottom. “You strike me as the kind of person who makes decisions on the turn of a dime.”

“I prefer to plan my actions.”

“Oh, certainly, when the action at hand is nothing but business. But when it comes to your heart?”

Illumi cocks his head to the side, a long lock of hair slipping from his shoulder to ghost over his bare arm. “You say you know who I am. Do you still believe I have one?”

Hisoka looks him straight in the eye and smiles. “Absolutely.”

Illumi is taken aback. His fingers tighten on the paper cup, the side buckling slightly. “What makes you so confident?”

“Because you’re going to fall in love with me.” Hisoka says it like it’s fact, clear as day. Something in Illumi’s chest softens, a resolve he was preparing deflates. There’s no truth to this claim. 

And really, why should he be disappointed? What would he do with a heart, other than ache?

And yet, he is disappointed. 

“Ah, well then,” he says dismissively. 

“Give me your hand,” says Hisoka, rubbing his ice-dampened hands on a paper napkin before warming them on his strong thighs. 

“I don’t want to hear any more about my past,” replies Illumi.

“Not that.” Hisoka holds out a hand; Illumi stares at it suspiciously before slowly lowering his fingers to it. 

Hisoka drops his eyes and raises Illumi’s hand to his lips. He presses a hot, wet kiss against the tender underside of Illumi’s wrist, his tongue lapping at the sensitive skin there. His thumb caresses Illumi’s, touch light with a hint of nail to it. 

The hairs on the back of Illumi’s neck rise, his skin suddenly hot and cold at once. Hisoka looks upwards and watches him with unblinking golden eyes as he moves his mouth down into Illumi’s palm. His kisses are like drops of hot wax, searing into Illumi’s skin. No one’s ever touched him here before, has never touched him like this before, sweetly and sexily in an empty coffee shop over a plastic cup of half-eaten ice. Hisoka curls Illumi’s fingers upwards with his own, and then slowly slips the pad of each finger into his mouth one at a time, sucking moistly on them. Heat blossoms in Illumi’s stomach, his breath quickening, his heart racing in his chest. 

He’s never felt hotly dizzy like this before, never felt so off guard. His previous amorous outings had been brief and anonymous, hasty hand-jobs and teeth-filled kisses in back alleys. 

Hisoka, he thinks, would take hours making love, would draw out every drop of pleasure to be had. Wouldn’t stop until he was entirely satisfied. 

Illumi wonders what that would feel like, to be so seduced, so worshipped. 

Hisoka’s thumb draws up his palm in the wake of his kisses, the sensation of his sharp nail acute after the softness he sucked into Illumi’s skin. Illumi jolts, his groin throbbing. 

“You hardly know me,” whispers Illumi, his resolve weakened, his head unusually clouded by lust. “I am not interesting or attractive; why do you pursue me?”

Hisoka blinks. He raises a second hand to press Illumi’s hand, staring at him overtop it. “Illumi, you’re ravishing. I want to run my hands through your luscious hair and bite colour into your delightful skin. I want to see my face in your beautiful, glassy eyes as I fuck you. I want to feel the blood on your hands and the wounds in your skin wash over me until the sheer depth of your violence makes me cum inside you.” His eyes flutter ecstatically and he moans, nails curving like claws. Illumi briefly imagines them scraping over his shoulders, the heat of Hisoka over and around and within him, those strong hips pounding against his. 

Very pleasant. 

“And I think,” the fortune-teller adds, a little breathlessly, “that you’d like it too. How about it, love? Can I take you home?”

It’s three o’clock on a dusty Friday afternoon, and Illumi has just been propositioned in broad daylight by a man clearly lacking in sanity. 

“Very well,” he says.

  
***

They return to Hisoka’s apartment, only a few blocks away. The air there is cool but not air-conditioned, simply unheated from the darkness of the space. In daylight Illumi can see that it’s clean and relatively sparse, only a poster from Raiders of the Lost Arc on the wall; “I love the scene where their faces melt off,” purrs Hisoka as he draws him past.

Hisoka had started licking little kisses into the skin beneath his jaw as soon as they entered his apartment; his words puff against the wet skin and make Illumi shiver. His arm is slung around Illumi’s waist, fingers slipped beneath Illumi’s waistband gently massaging the joint of his hip and down into the gentle slope of its lee. His nails scratch against Illumi’s pubic hair and he moans into Illuim’s throat. 

Hisoka’s room is lit by two bedside lamps that glow softly, casting a buttery light on the large room. Since Illumi brought him back after their first meeting Hisoka has cleaned up; there’s no longer underwear on the floor, and the bed has been tidily made, pillows fluffed. Hisoka tumbles down to sit on the bed and draws Illumi down after him into his lap; his shorts are too stiff to reveal his cock, but Illumi is quite sure it’s hard. 

“If you don’t want to die,” begins Illumi straight-forwardly while Hisoka runs his hands up his thighs. “Wear a condom, don’t cover my eyes, and don’t touch the back of my neck.”

“Understood.” Hisoka smiles as he leans back, shifting Illumi forward on his lap and increasing the friction between them. His eyelashes flutter as he rolls his hips, his hands tightening on Illumi’s thighs. Illumi feels the warmth between them building slow as a sunrise, dawn still hours away and his breath already catching. 

Hisoka’s hands slide back further, fingers digging into Illumi’s bony ass, pressing and pulling at his flesh. “Mm, Illumi, your pants are too thick. Take them off.” 

Illumi rises and does as he’s asked, shedding his shoes and pants in a pile on Hisoka’s floor and then re-seating himself in just his briefs. Hisoka’s smile is wide and lewd, his eyes curved with pleasure. “Much better,” he purrs, and sets about massaging Illumi’s ass with his strong fingers. 

Illumi leans forward and, feeling slightly light-headed, kisses him. Hisoka responds with a growl of approval, his mouth surging against Illumi’s and his tongue meeting the assassin’s halfway. Illumi is excited but not experienced, and Hisoka begins to systematically plunder his mouth, breaking away only for shuddering breaths. His hands cup Illumi’s ass and he lifts him and turns, throwing him down onto the bed and pivoting to straddle him, all the more forceful now that he’s above. 

He grinds his hips against Illumi’s, the sensation of the jean fabric unpleasant but the friction still hardening his prick so that it fills out his cotton briefs. Hisoka’s running his hands through Illumi’s sleek hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Illumi feels overwhelmed by sensation, by Hisoka’s kisses and scratches and the rolling rhythm of his hips. He’s never felt his body so full of need, never known he _could_ need like this. He doesn’t know how to express what he feels, and anyway his mouth is full of Hisoka’s tongue, so he settles for holding Hisoka’s sides to keep him close. His fingers press into the valleys between Hisoka’s ribs, hard enough to bruise. Hisoka doesn’t complain. 

After what feels like no time but also eternity Hisoka rolls off briefly and shoves his shorts and underwear off, revealing a thick, dew-tipped cock. He also shucks off his shirt, running a thumb over his erect nipple and smiling at Illumi. “Do you want me inside?” he asks, one hand falling to encircle his cock, stroking it. 

Illumi does want it. “Yes,” he says, plainly. He takes off his own shirt from a sense of symmetry, the razors hidden in it weighing it down when he drops it over the edge of the bed. 

Hisoka smiles. He goes over to the closet and pulls out a large fabric box. He returns with it and opens it; inside are several dildos of different sizes and colours, a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. “My tickle trunk,” he says. “I can’t wait to see them up your ass.”

Illumi glances down at Hisoka’s dick; the fortune-teller smiles. “Mm, you’re not quite ready for that yet,” he says. “Take off the briefs and turn over.”

Illumi does, legs spread, on his knees. He hears Hisoka uncap the lube and rip open a condom, then there’s nothing but silence until his hot body suddenly presses against Illumi, his hard cock pressing between Illumi’s cheeks. He moans, resting his face on Illumi’s back, hips thrusting weakly for a moment; Illumi feels a wave of heat wash through him, the edges searing want. Then Hisoka’s pulling back and something narrow and cool is pressing against his entrance. 

The dildo is finger-sized at the tip and wider at the base. Hisoka pushes it in and out while he turns Illumi’s head to face the side and kisses his jaw, his ear, his cheekbone. Hisoka’s hips are moving in the air beside him gently, hungrily, and Illumi reaches down and brushes his fingers over the swollen latex-sheathed member. The dildo jerks up into him as Hisoka stiffens; Illumi smiles and does it again. 

“Do you want to touch, Illumi?”

He nods. Hisoka takes his own slick fingers and spreads the lube on Illumi’s hand. Illumi catches hold of his cock and strokes his hand down to the base, twisting against Hisoka’s balls. Hisoka lets out a deep moan and ruts the toy up inside him. 

At his next pull Hisoka removes the dildo for a moment. It’s replaced by a thicker, rounder head that pushes up into him; this one is ridged, each thick ridge pressing his hole open as it works its way slowly in. Illumi pants open-mouthed, the sensation intense, arousing. His own cock is throbbing; he reaches down with his free hand and starts to stroke himself with the same rhythm as he uses on Hisoka, a prick in each hand. He leans his head back against Hisoka’s shoulder, full of bliss, his body being slowly milked of pleasure. 

“Do you like it, Illumi?”

“I do.”

“Tell me more. Tell me how much you like it. Tell me that you want my prick in your ass. Tell me that you want me to fuck you into this bed.” The toy ruts up into him sharply and his eyes close and his fingers catch, squeezing so that Hisoka gasps. His body is thirsty for this man’s touch, to be filled with his prick, to be pounded into until he finds his release. 

“I do,” he whispers. 

“You want it?”

“I want it.” The words catch in his throat as dread wells up sharply inside him. _We see to it that you want for nothing; you see to it that you_ want _nothing_. Illumi’s eyes snap open. “/i>Hisoka,” he gasps, but then Hisoka is removing the toy and rounding behind him, and before Illumi can tell him that they need to stop, that this is wrong, that he’s not made to want, Hisoka is sliding his thick cock into him. 

It’s thicker than either of the toys, so thick, so tight that Illumi gasps and Hisoka laughs and snaps his hips up, filling Illumi with his cock. He wraps his arms around Illumi, plasters his chest to Illumi’s naked back as he rides him, hips working in at a relentless rhythm. The sound of Hisoka’s ragged breaths is in his ears, his body overwhelmed by touch, by heat, by ecstasy. 

Illumi’s mind is trying to tell him that this is wrong, but his body is telling him it’s so, so right, every inch of him suffused with pleasure. His toes are curling against the sheets, his hand tight as it works his prick from head to root in time with Hisoka’s strokes. How can this be wrong when it feels so right, when this feels like what he was made for? Not for death, not for murder or madness, but for this searing sensation of bliss. 

He doesn’t last long. He’s never been ridden like this, never been worked like Hisoka is working him. His pleasure crests and he comes in one long spurt, soiling the sheets. Hisoka keeps pounding into him, the sensation quickly passing from pleasant to strange to uncomfortable. 

Hisoka’s arms are wrapped around him, his body pressed tight to Illumi. His chin is low over Illumi’s shoulder, his mouth close. “ _Illumi. So much blood. Dead eyes, staring up. The knife broke and cut you. Your blood with his. Gore everywhere. So much red. Oh~_ ” he moans and comes, hips slamming into Illumi. 

When he’s done he pulls out and flops down, Illumi sitting awkwardly on the bed and looking down at him. Illumi is cold, sweat on his body cooling in the basement air, his ass sore. Hisoka stares up at him, golden eyes dull as dusty coins and immensely satisfied. 

He reaches up to run a hand through Illumi’s hair. “So much horror,” he murmurs. His lips curve upwards, hungry. “I want to know it all.”

Illumi stares down at him and wonders what exactly he’s started. 

END


End file.
